![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
spacemutineer.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sherlock60Canon Story: A Scandal in Bohemia
Title: Profession
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spacemutineer
Rating: G
Author's Note: I have two other ideas for 60s, a matched set actually, but I'm not sure if they're a bit too... conceptual to use. They may or may not appear here later tonight. For now, I at least have this. ETA: Okay, new bits are up, below.
My biographer is over-quick to mourn the loss of my talents from the realms of stage and science. He fails to appreciate it is precisely those talents that make me the specialist in crime that I am. I am an actor. I am a scientist. The profession I devised for myself requires all my skills, with nothing lost or wasted.
Title: Vacancies
Author:spacemutineer
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: These are a matched set as you'll see, and very angsty. I'm forever drawn to the pathos for whatever reason.
Spring again, cool and damp. The breeze rustling the curtains steals the last warmth off another untouched dinner plate.
The detective sits curled in his own chair and tries to avoid looking at its mate standing loyal guard by the open window, much as its previous owner did.
The doctor's chair is empty.
At least the syringe is full.
Their funerals were a week apart, as it happened. Holmes' was an indistinct blur, a parade of pale well-wishers squeezing Watson's hand and dropping flowers onto an empty casket.
Irene's ceremony was similarly overflowing with mourners, admirers, and hangers-on. But the only witness to her wedding three years prior was missing, his seat there as coldly vacant as his grave.
Title: Profession
Author:
spacemutineerRating: G
Author's Note: I have two other ideas for 60s, a matched set actually, but I'm not sure if they're a bit too... conceptual to use. They may or may not appear here later tonight. For now, I at least have this. ETA: Okay, new bits are up, below.
My biographer is over-quick to mourn the loss of my talents from the realms of stage and science. He fails to appreciate it is precisely those talents that make me the specialist in crime that I am. I am an actor. I am a scientist. The profession I devised for myself requires all my skills, with nothing lost or wasted.
Title: Vacancies
Author:
spacemutineerRating: PG-13
Author's Note: These are a matched set as you'll see, and very angsty. I'm forever drawn to the pathos for whatever reason.
Spring again, cool and damp. The breeze rustling the curtains steals the last warmth off another untouched dinner plate.
The detective sits curled in his own chair and tries to avoid looking at its mate standing loyal guard by the open window, much as its previous owner did.
The doctor's chair is empty.
At least the syringe is full.
Their funerals were a week apart, as it happened. Holmes' was an indistinct blur, a parade of pale well-wishers squeezing Watson's hand and dropping flowers onto an empty casket.
Irene's ceremony was similarly overflowing with mourners, admirers, and hangers-on. But the only witness to her wedding three years prior was missing, his seat there as coldly vacant as his grave.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-04-02 05:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-04 08:15 pm (UTC)